THE LOST WALLET TEST

Why Japan may be the safest place in the world to lose your wallet

There aren't many restaurants with outdoor seating in Japan, particularly traditional Japanese ones. That may be because al fresco dining simply isn't part of Japanese culture – or because summers are far too hot to sit outside.

There is, however, a yakitori restaurant just a couple of hundred metres from our local station with a single terrace table, which is one of our favourite spots.

One table.

That's all it takes.

On a weekend in June, with perfect weather for eating outdoors, we settled in to enjoy what they do best: outstanding yakitori.

Chicken. Beef. Pork. Vegetables. Tongue. Cheek.

If it can be skewered and grilled over charcoal, they'll probably serve it – and they'll do it brilliantly.

Our little 'terrace' is separated from the pavement by a wooden screen, just high enough to stop passing commuters from inspecting your dinner on their way home.

Or so I thought.

Halfway through the meal, a woman walking past suddenly leaned over the screen.

'Excuse me,' she said. 'There's a wallet behind your chair.'

I turned around.

Sure enough, there it was. Apparently, my wallet had quietly slipped out of my back pocket without me noticing.

What surprised me more wasn't that I'd dropped it.

It was that a complete stranger had somehow spotted it behind a chest-high wooden screen while simply walking past.

She could easily have ignored it.

Instead, she stopped to make sure I got it back.

It reminded me of something visitors to Japan often mention. The remarkable likelihood that, if you lose something here, you'll probably see it again.

Years ago, I managed to leave my smartphone on a train while changing to another one across the platform.

In many countries, that would have been the end of the story.

In Japan, another passenger picked it up, got off several stations later, and went out of her way to return it to me.

People even reserve café tables by leaving their belongings behind.

Sometimes a hat.

Sometimes a handkerchief.

Occasionally – even more astonishingly – an expensive smartphone.

Personally, I'd still choose the handkerchief.

I learned that lesson in London.

About twenty years ago, I spent an enjoyable afternoon browsing bookshops before ending up at a McDonald's near Piccadilly Circus.

My shopping bag was now full of books.

Finding a table upstairs, I faced a logistical dilemma. Should I carry the heavy bag downstairs to order, then somehow balance both the tray and the books back upstairs? Or simply leave the bag on my chair for a couple of minutes?

Having already lived in Japan for several years, the second option seemed perfectly reasonable. To make it less obvious, I even covered the bag with my jacket.

Problem solved.

Or so I thought.

When I returned with my meal, both the jacket and the shopping bag had disappeared.

As I stood there trying to process what had just happened, someone at a nearby table caught my eye.

'We took your bag,' they said.

Relief.

Then came the explanation. Someone had stolen my jacket. Seeing this happen, they rescued the shopping bag before it disappeared as well.

The books survived.

The jacket did not. To this day, I sometimes envision someone still walking around London with a yellow summer jacket that once belonged to me.

Looking back, the books were probably worth considerably more anyway.

Living in Japan can lull you into believing the world is fundamentally trustworthy.

Occasionally, it is.

Sometimes a stranger leans over a fence to return your wallet.

Sometimes another passenger chases you across train stations with your phone.

And sometimes complete strangers rescue your books while quietly accepting that your jacket is beyond saving.

Perhaps the real lesson is this:

Habits acquired in Japan don't always travel well.